


Talk One More Time...

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Fluff, M/M, cupidmystrade gift, mystrade, silliness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-14
Updated: 2013-02-14
Packaged: 2017-11-29 05:35:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/683428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a long day at work, Mycroft wants nothing more than to crawl into bed and sleep for days. But Greg has other plans.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Talk One More Time...

**Author's Note:**

> This was a gift for the lovely azriona for the cupidmystrade exchange. Many thanks to [WatchingInTheDark](archiveofourown.org/users/WatchingInTheDark/%22) for prompting me.

Mycroft Holmes was never one to complain. Well, that wasn't entirely true; he never complained to any of his partners. Lord knows he complained at Anthea enough; he had no idea how the woman dealt with him when he was in one of his moods, but she was damned good at it, and hadn't quit yet, so that was a victory in his book

Not that he didn't have a reason to complain today, mind you. His days were always busy, but this day had been both busy and absolutely exhausting. First, there had been the issue with his staff, which consisted of two of Anthea's underlings getting into a physical altercation over something idiotic (he really hadn't wasted his valuable time on figuring it out), and had to fire them both. To say that Anthea was less-than-pleased would be the understatement of the century, as she'd exhibited an extraordinary amount of animosity toward him for the remainder of the day. Coupling Anthea's unwillingness to cooperate with him and the six-hour meeting he'd been forced to oversee, he was completely and utterly exhausted. He wanted nothing more than to climb into bed and sleep for days. But, unfortunately, it was only Monday, and the rest of his week would likely be filled with just as hectic, if not more so, days and nights. 

He sighed, fishing around in his jacket pocket for his keys. Finding them tucked underneath his pack of fags and lighter, he pulled them out and quickly scanned the keyring for the key to his and Gregory's flat. Well, technically it was still Mycroft's flat, but Greg had unofficially moved in several weeks before. The government official smiled fondly to himself, recalling the DI's hesitancy to take the next step in their relationship. "Mycroft, don't you think it's a bit....soon?" he had questioned. Mycroft had replied, in his usual calm, collected demeanor, "Gregory, you and I have been dating upwards of six months. I should think you'd be comfortable sharing a flat with me by now. After all, it is the next logical step in our relationship." Gregory hadn't protested after that, and three days later, most of his lover's things had been moved into his flat. Greg still kept the lease on his crap flat, insistent that he had 'made a commitment, and was going to see it through'. Mycroft had rolled his eyes at his lover, but other than that, had not protested.

Long fingers closed around the doorknob, and he turned it, pushing the heavy wooden door open slowly; it was late, nearly midnight, and Gregory was sure to be asleep by then, or so he thought. In reality, the DI had been waiting up for Mycroft, though he was completely exhausted as well from a long day of dealing with corpses, his officers, and the Consulting Idiot he kept on staff. Sherlock had spent the entire day doing nothing but complaining about the 'stupidity' of Lestrade's officers (he was half-right; most of the guys didn't have IQs any higher than eggplants, but there was no need to point it out every ten seconds), arguing with the DI himself over the importance of proper police procedure over catching the murderer, and just being an arse. Greg was exhausted, yes, but he knew his lover had a far more stressful job, and deserved to be pampered a bit, considering how much he did for the DI.

Greg looked up from his position on the couch, eyes half-closed, a book in his lap, as his lover walked into the foyer and toed off his expensive leather shoes. "Mycroft?"

Mycroft prided himself on not being surprised easily, but hearing the DI's voice at this hour, especially since he was completely exhausted, scared him half to death. So much, in fact, that he felt the need to draw the sword he kept secretly hidden in his umbrella and point it in the DI's direction. Greg, thankfully, was almost twenty feet from the offending blade, his eyes wide with shock and amusement. "Oi, d'Artagnan, calm yourself," he teased, standing up from the couch and padding toward his surprised lover. He reached out his hand and touched the tip of the sword with his finger, pushing it to the side. "You have some strange habits, Mr. Holmes."

It took a moment for Mycroft to regain his ability to speak, but when he did, he was annoyed. More than annoyed; rightly pissed off his arse.

"You scared me half to death!" he exclaimed, lowering the blade to his side and re-sheathing it in the umbrella, "I could have sliced one of your bloody arms off!"

"Oi, relax," the DI chuckled, reaching out to brush a bead of sweat from Mycroft's cheek, "You wouldn't have done anything. I'm agile."

"You're about as agile as an ostrich with its feet cuffed together," Mycroft huffed, dropping the umbrella in its stand, the tip of it hitting the cold metal with a bang. "You could warn a person before you just...speak like that."

Greg chuckled. "Now, how am I supposed to warn you I'm about to speak, without speaking?"

Mycroft didn't have an answer for that, merely scowling at the DI and shrugging off his heavy coat. He hung the expensive wool garment on its designated hook, something he'd been trying to get Gregory to do for as long as he could remember; he'd never met a man so intent on leaving his clothes _everywhere_. It had been cute at first, one of his lover's many 'quirks', but over time, it had begun to grate on Mycroft's nerves, coupled with the other things his lover did on a daily basis. He knew Gregory didn't do them on purpose, it was just the way he'd always lived (he had been a bachelor for awhile now, after all), but that didn't make them any less aggravating.

"Hey," Greg murmured, interrupting Mycroft's inner tirade, "C'mon. I'll make it up to you. Though, _you're_ the one who almost stabbed me, so I think you owe me something."

The ginger raised an eyebrow suspiciously. "What could you possibly do to 'make it up' to me?"

"I'll show you," the silver-haired man grinned, taking Mycroft's cold hand in his own warm one. "Off with your clothes, first, though."

"Don't I get dinner first?" Mycroft muttered, "That's usually how this type of thing works."

"Oh, shush," Greg chuckled, squeezing Mycroft's fingers as he lead the younger man into the master suite. "Come on, then," he smirked, "Clothes off. I'll run us a hot bath, yeah?"

"Gregory, I'm exhausted." Mycroft sighed, "Can't we just go to bed?"

"If that's what you want," the DI shrugged, "Thought it might be nice for your back, though."

"How did you know-"

"I've been hanging around Holmeses too long," Greg replied with a smirk not unlike the Holmes' trademark one, "It wasn't that hard to figure out. You're walking a bit stiff, and you're not nearly as, shall we say, flexible as usual."

"...Very good," Mycroft replied, genuinely impressed, "Can you tell me what else is bothering me?"

"Your feet, most likely from having to stand in front of all those idiots all day."

"Brilliant," the ginger muttered, sinking back onto the bed and allowing himself to fall backwards, his sore back receiving some relief from the firm mattress. "Now if only you could deduce the cure for those things."

"Oh, I'd bet you anything I already know," the older man smiled, kneeling down in front of his lover. For a split second, Mycroft thought he would have to tell his lover 'not tonight, dear,' but Gregory had a completely different plan. He took one of Mycroft's sock-clad feet in his hands and pressed his thumb into the arch, earning a surprised grunt from its owner. "Gregory, what are you-"

"Hush," the DI commanded, gently but firmly. Mycroft thought it best to comply, (it did feel wonderful, after all, and he hadn't had a massage in ages), and relaxed, the top of his head just barely brushing one of the comfortable throw pillows that littered the king-sized bed. Greg smiled at his partner's compliance, and reached up to scratch gently at the open area between Mycroft's trouser leg and the top of his sock (which looked to be ridiculously expensive, if that logo was what the DI thought it was), earning an appreciative sigh from the government official. 

"Feels good?" the DI murmured, more of a statement than a question.

"Mm," the ginger sighed, "It does."

"Thought so," Greg smiled to himself, digging his palms into the balls of Mycroft's feet. "Like that?"

"Hm," Mycroft hummed, "Lovely. You're quite...ah...good at this."

"I've had some practice," the older-haired man replied, sliding his hand up Mycroft's trouser leg to rub gently at his calf. "My feet were sore as hell when I first started working at the Yard. All that running around and shit exhausts a person."

The government official inwardly cringed at his lover's language (one of the many other things he'd have to train out of the DI), but didn't say anything, instead choosing to enjoy the massage he was currently receiving. "That feels absolutely wonderful," he murmured, stifling a yawn. He reached up to grab one of the larger pillows, propping it up under his head and allowing himself to relax fully. Surely just closing his eyes for a moment wouldn't hurt..."

"Oi, stay awake, sleepyhead," Greg laughed, "I'm not done with you yet."

"Oh?" Mycroft questioned, his voice slightly annoyed, "What else do you have in store for me?"

"Here," Greg released Mycroft's leg, much to his dismay, and stood up, grunting as his knees left the ground. "Christ, I'm not as young as I used to be." he cracked, leaning forward to press a kiss to Mycroft's chest. "Shirt off," he commanded with more authority than Mycroft thought strictly necessary. 

The ginger raised an eyebrow in a quizzical expression. "For the purpose of what, exactly?"

"Mycroft." Greg's tone was a mixture of affection and annoyance. Affectionate annoyance. A perfect description of their entire relationship dynamic, actually, the ginger thought with a chuckle.

"Alright, fine," Mycroft rolled his eyes, reaching up to hastily untie his tie knot, his other hand fumbling with the small buttons on his expensive dress shirt. He finally managed to get both garment and accessory off, and glanced around the room, wondering where he could put them that would involve the least movement possible. His lover's voice interrupted his thought, however, and he felt his discarded clothing being tugged from his hands.

"For God's sake, Mycroft, you can toss your things on the floor for one night."

"But-"

"No buts," the DI replied, kneeling between Mycroft's legs and pressing another kiss to his neck. "Turn over."

Mycroft started, then looked up at the DI, confused. "What?"

"Turn over," Greg repeated, "Is the great Mycroft Holmes hard of hearing?"

"You just said the equivalent of 'did I stutter'." the ginger muttered, complying with his lover's request and rolling over onto his slightly chubby stomach. "What are you going to do now?"

"I'm going to finish your massage, idiot," Greg sighed, "For a couple of geniuses, you Holmes sure are stupid at times."

The government official scowled, bit the inside of his cheek, and decided that trying to relax would be the best thing for him at the moment. "Hurry up," he half-whined, "I'm tired."

"Would you rather wake up tomorrow morning unable to walk because of your back pain?" Greg bit back, moving forward to straddle Mycroft's arse, a leg on either side of his hips. "Now stay still."

"How am I supposed to stay still when there's an idiot atop me?"

"You're right. You never could manage to keep still when I'm on top of you."

"Hilarious." the ginger muttered, pressing his face into the comfortable feather-stuffed pillow in his arms. "Idiot."

"Twat," Greg teased affectionately, placing both hands on Mycroft's shoulders, moving his talented fingers over the skin and massaging the tense muscles. "Jesus, Mycroft, it's like you've got rocks in here," he said incredulously as his fingers worked out the knots in his lover's upper back, "What the hell do you do all day?"

"You're not serious." Mycroft turned his head, trying to get a good angle to glare at the DI. "You cannot be serious."

"You're right, you're right, stupid question," Greg waved his left hand dismissively before returning it to its original task. "But Christ, you really should hire a masseuse, or something."

"Why hire a masseuse when I have you?" Mycroft smirked, "You're my live-in masseuse, bed-partner..."

"Whore." Greg finished, bending forward to nibble at the exposed skin right behind Mycroft's left ear. Mycroft grimaced, then resigned himself to his fate and made a small noise of agreement. "I think you have it backwards," he chuckled, arching his back as Greg's hands hit a particularly bad knot. "Watch it!"

"Shush," Greg soothed, gently rubbing his hand over the sore spot, "This is going to hurt, then it'll feel great."

"Where have I heard that before," Mycroft sighed, "Go on."

"Alright, one, two-"

"Wait."

"What?"

"Don't get that knot. Just let me sleep."

"Mycroft, it's one knot."

"No, I'm finished. Let me go to sleep, I'm exhausted."

"No, Mycroft. One, two-"

"I'm warning you..."

"Three."

Mycroft let out a soft cry as Greg's palms pressed into the knot, feeling the tension disintigrating under his skin. "For god's sake!" the government official exclaimed, "Didn't I just tell you-"

"Got it." the DI interrupted triumphantly, "And you said not to."

"That _hurt_!" Mycroft snapped, "That's why I told you not to do it!"

"Does it hurt now?"

"..."

"That's what I thought." Greg chuckled, pressing another kiss to the back of Mycroft's neck. "Now you can sleep." He lifted up his left leg and swung it over Mycroft's side, then flopped down beside his partner. "You can't tell me it doesn't feel better."

"It does, fine," Mycroft grumbled, reaching down to unbutton and unzip his trousers. "You're quite honestly a real pain, you know that?" he muttered as he kicked off the trousers and his pants. "Sometimes I wonder why I keep you around."

"Do you want a list of things?" the DI laughed, tugging his light-blue pyjama shirt over his head and tossing it aside.

"No, you narcissist," Mycroft replied, reaching down and tugging off both his socks in one quick motion, "I really just want to sleep. Can you grant me that courtesy, _love_?"

The DI let out a soft chuckle, then nodded. "Alright, alright." Greg turned over and pressed a button on the lamp near the bedside table, turning the lightbulb off. "Go to sleep." he whispered, slithering down the bed until he was able to grab ahold of the heavy duvet Mycroft insisted always cover the bed. He pulled the duvet over the two of them and sighed, moving over next to his lover and wrapping his arms around his waist.

"I still can't believe you have a sword in your _brolly_ ," the older man chuckled, "You really are full of surprises, aren't you?"

"Can't hear you, I'm asleep," Mycroft replied, shifting down further into the comforting warmth of both his lover and the duvet.

"Big baby."

"Idiot."

"I love you." Greg smiled, running his fingers through Mycroft's slightly mussed hair.

"I love you, too," the ginger murmured, "But talk one more time, and you'll never see the light of day again."


End file.
